


In Pieces

by JaqofSpades



Category: X-Men (Movies)
Genre: Community: wishlist_fic, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-03
Updated: 2012-12-03
Packaged: 2017-11-20 04:42:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/581417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaqofSpades/pseuds/JaqofSpades
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She begins to wonder if her waking life is the dream, and her body is lost somewhere, broken and unrecognisable from its plunge back to earth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Pieces

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Wishlist_fic 2012, for dutchxfan to the prompt: Logan and Rogue, “post traumatic stress disorder”.

*

_A scream, a bang, and then she is gone, sucked into nothingness. His eyes are desperate as he scrabbles at his harness and she knows, she knows he would save her, but he can't, not this time, and she is falling, falling ..._

"Rogue. Rogue!"

_... plummeting back to earth and suddenly, blue arms are snatching her from the sky, and nothingness becomes actual nothing and then they're back in the plane, but it's not until she sees him, not until he drops his head back onto the headrest and lets the panic hiss from his lungs that she realises she's safe, safe ..._

"Rogue!" 

She blinks and the blackboard swims into focus, Storm hovering to one side, brow creased in that concerned look that's s beginning to turn Rogue's stomach. Christ on a cross, she's done it again, in the middle of history no less. They're all looking at her, so much sympathy she wants to puke, so she just smiles and shakes her head.

"Sorry, Storm. Daydreaming. What was the question?"

"The Boxer Rebellion. Primary causes thereof," her teacher chides gently. Always so fucking gently, she thinks viciously. No one raises their voice at Rogue, anymore. Sometimes she wants to give them something real to look at, wants to scream and cry and shake, but she's too fucking proud to do that, and it wouldn't change anything.

So she keeps the screaming and the crying and the shaking for the middle of the night, when no one can hear.

Except Logan, of course. He is her proof of life.

She's lost, falling, and suddenly he is by her bed, dragging her back. The heat of him, enfolding her, refusing to let her go. The soft litany of "Sssh, Marie. I'm here. You're safe. Sssh." The calm practicality of him, scooping her out of bed, holding back her hair as she retches, testing the heat of the shower before telling her to step in.

She hates it, of course, that he sees her this way. Hates the fact it happens at all, but there's something about the nights they spend together that makes it bearable. Anyone else, and the humiliation would outweigh the nastiness of the flashbacks, and the thought of dealing with it alone ... she can't. She'd go mad. 

Sometimes, when she hasn't seen him in a day or two, she begins to wonder if her waking life is the dream, and her body is lost somewhere, broken and unrecognisable from its plunge back to earth. In the daytime hours, she seems to drift, as if she is merely a ghost, walking.

She goes in search of Logan, and she's just another teenager, another girl with a crush. "Don't bother him, Rogue. He has work to do," says Storm, or "You'll see him at dinner," from Dr Grey. Their smiles are absent and patronising, and perhaps that's as much kindness as a ghost can expect.

No one touches her. They speak to her as if she is dead. Her face aches from the fake smiles and she begins to worry that her flesh is dead. Rigor mortis, perhaps, and she lifts her hand to examine it, to see if decay is setting in. It looks like her hand always did, but that's no clue. Her hands might have been dead inside her gloves all along.

Perhaps she died long before she fell out of the plane, Marie wonders. As a child, when she fell into the river at the Founders Day picnic. Perhaps Cody had been the mutant, and she had been the one sucked dry. 

Perhaps Logan had never come back for her, and she was still huddled by the side of the road, frozen.

But then it's dark, and Logan is there, pulling her down next to him on the couch, arm thrown over her shoulders and fingers tugging idly at her hair. He is there, warm and solid and so alive he makes her head spin. When Jubilee and Kitty launch into their usual Angel versus Spike analysis, he shoots her a disbelieving glance and she feels obliged to speak up on behalf of Spike. And then he frowns and tells them all to focus on the fucking combat styles and it's just so Logan she has to laugh.

He climbs into bed with her one night, and pulls her against his chest, and the dreams don't come. In the morning, he's still there, but his eyes are worried as he watches her in the morning light.

"Gotta go away for a bit, Marie. Pick up in California. Could take a week, maybe more."

Don't fade away, he's telling her. Don't die.

She wishes she could promise, but the panic in her eyes holds more truth, so maybe that's why he kisses her, bare lips to bare forehead. She's pulling away, even she remembers that much of herself, but he's not letting her leave just yet. Not until she's full of him, bursting with life and strength, Wolverine in her head howling with glee.

He fades in a day or two, but the memories stay longer. A broken girl, sad and withdrawn, but so, so, loved. The spark in her eyes that lights sometimes, and the hope that surges through him when he sees it. A woman, feisty and brave, with delicious curves and deep brown eyes and pure silver in her hair.

Marie blinks at that, and probes deeper, to see what she can find. Her - definitely her, in a few years time. A decade at the outside. And - oh! That answers _that_ question. They're doing things that make her blush, and she can hear herself, vocal with pleasure and love and passion.

But the days drag on, and he's gone, and that exciting woman is just a memory. Surely she dreamed her. Wishful thinking, Storm would suggest. Straight to therapy, Dr Grey would say, not that Marie plans to ever mention it.

She's drifting, again. Some days, she stays in bed, feigning a cough when someone comes to check on her. Others, she goes to class, but says nothing. Does nothing. Is nothing.

The rumble of the Harley barely pierces her fugue when he returns. The bench is facing away, back over the lawn, and she wants to turn her head, but can't quite manage it. Life is too hard.

He makes her run.

"Faster, Marie. I'll drag you if I have to!"

Her shuffle becomes a jog as they break through the tree line, and something wild is rising by the time they hit the lake, blood rushing through her veins and forcing her into a sprint. He grins wide, all teeth, then surges past her, dodging in and out of the trees and glancing back with yellow eyes as he slips the leash.

He disappears, and the woods are deathly quiet, and she knows she's being stalked. She owes it to him to elude him for at least a little while, so spins on her heel and backtracks to the lake. The water is cool as it laps around her shoes, then her calves and knees. She checks her line of sight - just outside of the view from the beach - and waits, staring up at the sky. It's beautiful here. So quiet.

There's a plane passing overhead, and she sees something falling, dropping like a stone, a human stain on all that blue. Her heart stops, and she can't breath. She's dead. Dead, dead, dead.

"Marie!"

Lake water sprays into her face, and she is alive again. (Wet and annoyed. But alive.)

He is standing a few metres away, growling. Unlike Logan, his feral self has no patience for her weakness. He demands her presence, demands his playmate, and won't tolerate her drifting away.

She soothes him with a low hum, and sloshes her way closer. He tips his head to one side, still concerned, and she lunges, using his weight to send him tumbling backwards into the knee-high water. He is spluttering in surprise when she drops onto his stomach and nestles her head against his chest, knowing that this is the only language Wolverine really understands.

I'm here. I'm alive. I'm yours.

No, they haven't talked about it, that immense, yawning future, but he is fresh inside her head. She's seen how he locks away that part of him, to concentrate on bringing her back. She's seen the woman he thinks she can be, and she can't deny that she craves that woman's fire. (And her lover.) 

So during the day, she keeps her head up, meets their eyes, never lets the smile slip. She smiles, and laughs, and rediscovers her own sass. It's so exhausting that she collapses into bed at night, and entire weeks can pass without the dreams.

When they do come, Logan is there. She can fall. Most nights, he'll catch her. Others, she's left in pieces, scattered and sobbing. But it's okay.

She's alive, and she's looking forward to the woman she'll be when he finishes putting her back together.

_fin_

Disclaimer: This fanfiction was written for personal enjoyment rather than profit. No infringement on the rights of the intellectual property owners is intended.


End file.
